Philter
by Lucky Notes
Summary: "What if the sky was just made of glass? And if you flew high enough, you could break right through it… what do you think would be behind it, Arthur? I want to see it someday…" World War II, as seen through the eyes of one Arthur Kirkland. USUK, AU


**a/n:** This is my first attempt at fanfiction, so you have my sincerest apologies if this makes you want to cry tears of sadness. Or anger. Please don't hit me. ;A;

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**phil·ter { fíltər } **

**potion: a magical potion or charm, especially one that causes somebody to fall in love**

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Arthur is eight and Alfred is seven and a half, and Arthur has just stepped foot on what is now to be his new home.

He is not happy with this arrangement.

He's so unhappy, in fact, that despite his usually good-mannered nature, he spends his very first afternoon in this new Podunk town down by the river, kicking stones into the water and sulking.

It's sheer coincidence that one of these stones hits Alfred Jones square on the jaw.

'_Ouch! What'dya do that for_?'

He looks up to see a boy around his age, perhaps slightly younger, with a small red mark on his chin and a glare in his eyes.

'_It's not my fault that your head is abnormally large.' _Arthur replies spitefully, just because he's feeling sour. He expects the blonde runt to start a fight, or shout, or bawl like a child. He's mildly surprised when all he gets for his trouble is a blank stare. It confuses him, and he actually feels ridiculously self-conscious for a moment, before the other child bursts out laughing.

'_Abby-normally? What's that, some kind of British thing?'_

Arthur fumes. He knows that he has a questionably large vocabulary for his age, but he hates being teased, and this kid is already starting to annoy him.

'_Git. Your laugh is obnoxious.'_

'_Obnoshus? Man, you're really full of it.'_

Arthur scowls, goaded. _'Stop that!'_

'_What, are you going to make me?" _the stranger replies, smiling widely to reveal an almost perfect row of white teeth, sans one missing baby tooth. Arthur knows that it's immature, but he can't help but take a running start towards him and tackling him into the river, just to wipe that annoying smile away. Alfred, naturally, does not take this well, and in a second they're wrestling blindly in the mud.

'_Oww! Get off!'_

'_You first, git!'_

In the end, they both end up sopping wet and dirty. Arthur has all of the fighting spirit of any other boy, but unfortunately lacks Alfred's brute physical strength. He pushes his sopping wet hair out of the way with muddy fingers, scowling and with the fullest expectation that the other would be too, but is instead greeted by the widest smile he had ever seen.

'_Man, you actually hit hard! You still totally lost, but you're pretty good. You looked so weak I didn't expect it. What's your name, anyways?'_

Arthur doesn't reply, too exhausted to fight but not nearly enough so that he would respond to such an distastefully posed question. The boy looks unfazed, his smile still in place.

'_Well, I'm Alfred F. Jones, and I'm going to be a hero someday! But don't worry, you can be my sidekick, kay?' _the boy, Alfred, paused momentarily to size Arthur up before shaking his head slightly. '_On second thought, you might have to be my damsel, if you can't even handle yourself in a fight…'_

Arthur suddenly finds it very difficult not to tackle the other boy for another round, but he manages to refrain. He's mildly disgusted when Alfred spits in his palm and holds it out like he's expecting a handshake, though, and when he then chases him around with his hand still outstretched and rambling about 'contracts,' he can't hold himself back from socking him once or twice… or three times.

Thus is the meeting of Arthur Kirkland and Alfred Jones.

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'_Hey Artie, why're you here anyways?'_

Arthur freezes at the question, and replies almost numbly, '_War. The Germans.'_

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his companion's lips pull into a frown.

_'Do you miss it? England, I mean.'_

Arthur draws in a shaky breath, feeling ridiculous, but Alfred's gaze is not judgemental. It is piercingly acute, but still boyishly innocent. Both comforting and increasingly worrisome. Arthur feels sick.

_'Occasionally.' _he eventually admits, which is the best lie and the worst truth he has ever told. Alfred gaze softens.

_'Well, don't worry. I promise that you'll love it here eventually, or my name isn't Alfred F Jones!'_

Arthur knows that he will absolutely never love it here, but he takes solace in the fact that Alfred is trying, at the very least.

Even if it's hopeless.

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'_Someday I'll be a pilot, and I'll fly farther than anyone else in the entire world. And I'll save… everyone.'_

Arthur Kirkland is twelve and Alfred Jones is eleven and a half and the world is peculiar.

When Alfred first divulges his not-so-secret ambition, they are lying side-by-side on a grassy hill in the rural countryside they both call home, staring skyward.

Alfred has been fiddling with the grass for ages, tearing it out and fingering each separate blade almost absently, eyes so blue and distant that they seem like perfectly round, reflective mirrors for the skies above. Arthur has his hands folded neatly behind his head, like a gentleman, eyes earthy green and practical, not nearly as frivolous.

He enjoys the quiet.

And of course Alfred breaks the silence eventually, because that's just what he does. Talking about that stupid dream of his, as though he's had it all his life. Arthur merely scoffs.

'_You'd only end up flying yourself into the ground with all of your commonsense, git.'_

But Alfred is tenacious as always, and he insists that one day, he'll be able to touch the sky, to graze the clouds with his outspread fingertips and watch the entire world fly by below him, like in the picture shows that they occasionally show in the town hall. The ones that show heroes in leather bomber jackets and shiny, freshly riveted planes.

'_I'll be a true hero, just you wait and see. I'll beat any of those damn Nazis, with my bare hands if I have to, and that's a bet!'_

Of course Arthur doesn't listen to him, because Alfred is young and naïve and always saying things that he never owns up to later.

The sentiment is a nice one, though.

Although he himself is not American, nor will he ever identify himself as such, it is somewhat satisfying for Arthur to hear such talk. The Germans are the ones that bombed his home, forced him into this strange new country. The Germans are the ones that make his mother cry into her pillow at night, that make his father come home drunk in the evening and his brothers sneak swigs of the foul alcohol his mother keeps in the cabinets when they think he isn't looking.

Germans are the enemies, as far as Arthur is concerned. If America wants to beat the living hell out of them, Arthur isn't going to object.

But, somehow, the thought of Alfred bombing them is distasteful to him. Perhaps because he knows that the idiot will just screw it up. Perhaps something different entirely.

'_Don't bet your money on it, dolt. You'll lose your last pound.'_

And Alfred, the tosser, the absolute bloody moron, has the gall to turn over on his side to face Arthur with that stupid, lopsided smile, blue eyes crystal clear in the piercing sunlight as he held out a small knot of grass in his upturned palm.

'_Don't you mean 'penny?''_

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Arthur sits in the small classroom with all of the windows open to the blinding heat outside, the entire class sweaty and the teacher's powdered face running dreadfully. It's an unbearable summer, as unbearable as all summers in Kansas get, and even he can't find it in himself to be interested with the boring lesson on arithmetic the teacher is halfheartedly droning on about.

Alfred kicks his chair, and when Arthur turns around to object, he finds the idiot smiling at him, as if he's his favorite person in the world-

_And suddenly, things just get that much hotter._

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At thirteen years of age, Arthur's parents never hurt him.

Granted that they aren't exactly in the running for Parental Figures of the Year, but they have never raised a hand against him out of spite. Sure, they discipline him when he is bad, but it's never anything more than a quick slap on the wrist or a whop on the head.

His father is a drunk, but he's not a violent drunk. He drinks because he is sad, and he is sad when he drinks. He does not rage.

His mother has a tendency to bottle up her emotions, but she never takes it out on him. She cries into her pillow and knits throw-blankets, but she always takes time to kiss his forehead or smooth her older sons' hair lovingly.

They are a broken, unhappy family, with all excess thought going to their burning country and all primary thought going to making a day by day living, and no one has ever accused them of being lovely and cheerful, but they are not _violent_ and they are not _barbaric_, by any means. His brothers may bully him, but even they know when to stop.

Thus, it comes as something of a wakeup call to Arthur when Alfred, twelve and a half and still moronic as always, shows up to school one day with an angry bruise blooming across the left side of his face.

And Arthur can't help but notice that he doesn't smile that day until he knows someone is watching him.

The American doesn't mention it except to make up a lame-ass excuse about bumping into a door, and no one bothers to ask. Arthur is incredulous that everyone in class seems to be able to laugh and joke with him as though his entire left cheek wasn't swollen and purple. But for some reason, he can't bring himself to ask about it, either. He feels like a horrible best friend, but Alfred doesn't seem to mind.

Hell, he barely seems to notice the fact that he could be a believable stand-in for one of those damn movie monsters he is always so afraid of. He just keeps smiling and laughing, like nothing is wrong.

Even though Arthur can definitely tell that something is wrong, and he just can't find the courage to mention it.

The only time he even makes a shot at it is during recess. He sits silently next to Alfred on one of the splintery benches, at a respectable distance. They both shuffle their feet for a while, staring at their laughing classmates. Without turning, Arthur made a go at it.

'_You look bloody horrible today.'_

Cue dry smile.

'_Gee, thanks doll face. I appreciate the compliment.'_

Cue narrowed eyes.

'_You know what I mean, idiot. The hell did you get that thing, anyways? And don't start with this 'bumping into things' business, I'm not a daft fool.'_

Alfred laughs, but it sounds empty. Not particularly happy, or even sad. Just devoid of anything.

'_My old man got a little upset and popped me one._' he admits candidly, craning his face towards the sun. '_No big deal. He gets this way sometimes_.'

Arthur doesn't know what to say to that. Yet, he does. The words are on his tongue before he even has time to think.

'_He shouldn't be hitting you, Alfred. You have to tell someone, or else I will.'_

A look of panic flits across the American's face, and Alfred's hands are suddenly gripping his shoulders and shaking him violently.

'_You can't tell, Arthur. Please, please, don't tell anyone! I'm fine!'_

Arthur's eyes narrow, and he finds himself reaching over to press a thumb haphazardly against the angry wine-red bruise on his companion's cheek. Alfred hisses in pain, releasing his shoulders, and Arthur stares at him impatiently.

'_You're fine, that's how it is?' _he says sarcastically, but the look in Alfred's eyes is desperate and pleading, far more so than Arthur has ever seen him, so the Briton eventually agrees, begrudgingly, that he won't say anything.

It makes him hate Alfred's bastard father with a passion, but it makes him hate himself even more. He's always complaining that Alfred is irresponsible, reckless, pea-brained, but now it seems like the other way around and every time Arthur looks in a mirror, he feels sick to his stomach.

He's useless.

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"_What if… what if the sky was just made of glass? And if you flew high enough, you could break right through it… what do you think would be behind it, Arthur? I want to… want to see it… someday…" _

"_I don't honestly care. And could you stop trying to copy my homework and do it yourself, you dolt?"_

"_But I'll only end up failing without your help! C'mon, Artie, be a team player!"_

"_Well maybe I just don't want to play on your team!"_

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At fifteen, things begin to get even more complicated for Arthur.

The incident with the bruise is behind them, so his relationship with Alfred should be going smoothly, but it isn't. They don't fight- well, they don't fight any more than they usually do- but another issue entirely has taken center stage for them, and if it should have been hitting them a while ago, it's making up for lost time now.

Puberty, Arthur decides, is a bitch. One that apparently enjoys his abject suffering so much that it takes a special pleasure in attacking virtually every aspect of his personal life.

It all starts one day while they're walking down by the creek. Arthur insists that they have to study, but Alfred will have none of it, stating something about how all of that studying will make him go blind and that the fireflies are supposed to come out this evening, and _we might be able to catch some for that little brother of yours, if you'd keep yer trap shut._

Of course Arthur is aware that Peter has absolutely no interest in such things and Alfred will only end up keeping them all for himself, but for some reason he can't find it in himself to call the other on it as Alfred practically drags him to their 'special spot,' which is really just a spot upstream where all of the bugs typically gather. It's rocky and slippery with moss and Arthur hates the place with every fiber of his being, but he can't help but feel protective of it when other neighborhood kids encroach upon what has become _their_ territory.

He blames Alfred for it, truthfully.

Perhaps one reason he has grown fond of it is that it was the one place that he could talk with Alfred in for hours with no interruption, save the occasional passerby. Alfred despises going home any earlier than he absolutely must, for reasons that Arthur is already aware of but refuses to bring up after the previous experience, so they often stay there chatting till dark, sometimes even later. It's often just ridiculous back-and-forth banter, about school and local events and other children. There are, however, two subjects that are never even touched upon.

Home life, obviously, because neither of them have it particularly easy and they prefer their skeletons as deep in the closet as they can go.

The war, because Arthur made it clear after Alfred started getting overzealous about his avian ambitions that he did not want to discuss it, and Alfred was smart enough for once to heed him.

As long as they keep out of those two red zones, Arthur reasons, they'll be fine.

Unfortunately, Alfred always finds a way to surprise him.

"_I kissed someone today!"_ he suddenly proclaims, right when they arrived at their spot and began sitting down. Arthur is so surprised that he nearly slipped on the moss-slick rocks. He catches himself, though, and stares up at Alfred with wide eyes.

"_Wh-What are you-"_ he stutters, blinking furiously.

He notices that Alfred's face is extremely red and, well, bothered. Like he's expecting something.

"_I-It was that Hungarian girl… Emilia or something."_ the American mumbled under his breath, kicking at a rock. _"Or was it Elaina…"_

'_Elizabeta.' _Arthur corrects faintly, before realizing what a fool he probably looks like. Just hearing that Alfred had actually kissed anyone was a shock. The idiot just seemed so.. infuriating, half the time, Arthur had never thought that anyone would actually…

For some reason, he feels really sick.

Straightening up to ward off the nausea, he tries to look indifferent. "_So, why should I care? It's not like I really give a rat's-"_

"_It was strange."_ Alfred goes on, as though he hadn't heard anything. His nose wrinkles. _"It's not like I hated it, but I don't get why the older kids like it so much. It just felt… weird. I don't know if I liked it or not…"_

"_Humph."_ is all Arthur can really reply with, seeing as his tongue feels like cement and his throat is scratchy as barbed wire. He feels confused, and ridiculous, and incredibly ill. Millions of questions buzz around in his head, like the fireflies that have appeared to float around in the evening air.

_Why do I feel so embarrassed?_

Alfred exhales sharply, as if in preparation for something, but Arthur barely notices through his scattered thoughts. He feels a firefly land on his head and doesn't bother to shake it off, focused on his inner monologue more than anything else.

_Why is he telling me this?_

_Is it because we're friends?_

The Brit curls in on himself a little just as Alfred scoots towards him stealthily. It's really a pretty scene, although neither of them bothers to notice it. As though the lightning bugs were putting on a show just for them, and they were too caught up in their own affairs to appreciate it.

_Or does he want me to know something?_

_Maybe he's just trying to brag… but then, why did he bother saying that he didn't like it?_

Still unaware of the American's advances, Arthur closes his eyes and breaths out. Maybe it was just a onetime thing, he reasons, trying to stifle the unease resting in the pit of his stomach like a stone. Maybe it was just Alfred being Alfred, sharing too much information, divulging a secret Arthur didn't want to hear in the first place. Maybe-

_Maybe he wants me to be jealous._

_Maybe he likes me the same as I-_

Startled by the very thought, his eyes shoot open and he flails a bit. Unfortunately for him, he didn't realize that Alfred had crouching directly in front of his face… and is greeted with the sight of his best friend falling into the creek.

Wait, what had Alfred been doing in front of his face?

Perplexed, he stands stock still as Alfred thrashes madly against the barely foot tall current of the creek, shouting obscenities. Saying that it's a surreal moment for him would be an understatement- he honestly has absolutely no idea what the hell is going on. Alfred does, however, and his expression is hurt when he emerges from the muddy creek bed despite the weak attempt at anger he tries to use as a façade.

'_Well what the hell did you do that for?' _the American demands, glaring haughtily. Arthur blink rapidly, still rebooting his mental facilities from the ludicrousness of it all.

'_You were… in front of my face…' _Arthur clarifies, gesturing vaguely. Alfred's face heats up, although Arthur isn't sure if it's just a figment of his imagination or not. He's not really sure about anything now, but just then…

Had Alfred just tried to kiss him?

Alfred scowls, getting up and brushing the excess muck and weeds off of his clothing. Arthur swears he looks just the slightest bit embarrassed, his cheeks still somewhat red. His heart picks up as he imagines that perhaps, just maybe, Alfred really had tried to kiss him. But then…

But then, he had just pushed him away.

And now he isn't saying anything.

And what if Alfred thinks that he didn't want to kiss him, and now they aren't ever going to speak again, and-

'_We should go home now.' _Alfred says simply, getting up and walking away before Arthur can even reply. Arthur blinks and follows miserably behind, not wanting to get left all alone in this place. They walk in silence for a long while, with only the occasional sounds of crickets chirping to fill the voice. Arthur feels weak.

'_You know, I was just trying to wipe some dirt of your cheek.' _Alfred says after they reach his home, where his father is probably still awake drinking. He wrings his hands anxiously, staring at his feet. Arthur wants so badly to say something in reply, to maybe be a little bold this time and make a declaration of love or something sappy like that, but he can't. He finds that even after all these years, he's still terrified of rejection. He looks down on at his feet, shame burning in his heart.

'_I-I know, you git.' _he manages to mumble, even though he really wishes he could say something else. Alfred smiles back weakly.

'_See you tomorrow!' _he says in an imitation of cheeriness, beginning to walk slowly up to his house. Arthur finds himself numbly walking away, unsure of his ability to reply without completely breaking down.

In the end, that was the first time Arthur realized how deeply in love he was with the neighborhood idiot.

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**Well, there's the first part of this unintelligible behemoth of a story. I actually had fun writing this, strangely enough. The idea is a little clichéd, but I wanted to put my spin on things. Even though it was probably fail, orz. I'm sorry for wasting your time. **


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